Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Happy Anniversary. Today would be my parent's 51st anniversary. I wonder if my father would understand how I feel about him. He has been dead for seven years. And although this may sound cruel, I’m basically glad he is not around. Partly that is because he was very sick for the last five years of his life, a partial cripple, overly dependent and controlling of my mother. But it is also because he was not a nice person to his family.
Everyone on the outside thought my father was the greatest guy. Always ready to pitch in and help when help was needed. Generous, a great guy. Funny and entertaining. A wonderful guy. Within his family he was a different person. Irresponsible, a teaser, when angry an accuser. Verbally abusive. Belittling. I don’t know how many times I was told as a teenager that I didn’t do any work on the farm- when my brother and I were doing most of the work because my father was sick from diabetes. And occasionally there were the darker moments.
In the fall of 1973 we moved from Traverse City to a farm near Buckley. My father was trying to finally escape from his curse, his evil mother. If there was a hell that bitch would be writhing in flames at this moment. Inside the old farmhouse my father was upset about something- I never knew what it was. We were moving the big dining room table which would seat 14 at Thanksgiving. And suddenly my father started yelling at me. I was chased into the back room and pushed down onto the concrete floor between the wringer washing machine and the boot rack. I remember lying there trying to shield my legs and butt as he hit me. One of my sisters says it was with a piece of two-by-four. I don’t know, all I do remember is wondering “What did I do?” My mother also doesn’t remember- she was good at blanking those sort of things out.
As far as I know that was the only time he beat me. The rest of the time it was verbal. “You are no good,” “You’ll never amount to anything.” That sort of crap. It continued until I was seventeen and finally fought back, refusing to speak to him until he apologized. Goddamit, it makes me physically sick to think of his tormenting teasing. Or the little cruelties- the admission that he burned my security blanket when I was three, the times he let my blind cat outside knowing that she would eventually get run over by a car or tractor. The attempts to get me to force me to drop out of college because he hated education so much. The time I called to tell them I had passed my MA exam and he said, ‘Well now you can come home and work at the pie factory.”
My father was not self-aware. In his mind he was perfect and unfailing. It was a flaw that had cursed his half-brother, their mother, and her mother also, but has luckily been broken. My brother and sisters have escaped, and I think my cousins as well. We all know very well that the nuclear family of our father, his sister, and his half-brother was no tv sitcom family. Instead it was fatally flawed, warped by a grandmother who viewed herself as perfect in every way. Nobody is perfect.
And I sometimes wonder about my father. Today would have been his 51st wedding anniversary- not that he ever remembered that day or was any nicer to my mother when reminded. I wonder if he ever regretted the things he did or wished he had made better choices in his life. After his stroke I suspect there was some dwelling on the past, but by then it was too late.
And so I’m glad he is gone. It makes my life easier. My siblings feel the same. It is very sad. I wish I had had a nicer father, someone I could have respected. But wishes are usually pretty pieces of fluff that just blow away.
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Everyone on the outside thought my father was the greatest guy. Always ready to pitch in and help when help was needed. Generous, a great guy. Funny and entertaining. A wonderful guy. Within his family he was a different person. Irresponsible, a teaser, when angry an accuser. Verbally abusive. Belittling. I don’t know how many times I was told as a teenager that I didn’t do any work on the farm- when my brother and I were doing most of the work because my father was sick from diabetes. And occasionally there were the darker moments.
In the fall of 1973 we moved from Traverse City to a farm near Buckley. My father was trying to finally escape from his curse, his evil mother. If there was a hell that bitch would be writhing in flames at this moment. Inside the old farmhouse my father was upset about something- I never knew what it was. We were moving the big dining room table which would seat 14 at Thanksgiving. And suddenly my father started yelling at me. I was chased into the back room and pushed down onto the concrete floor between the wringer washing machine and the boot rack. I remember lying there trying to shield my legs and butt as he hit me. One of my sisters says it was with a piece of two-by-four. I don’t know, all I do remember is wondering “What did I do?” My mother also doesn’t remember- she was good at blanking those sort of things out.
As far as I know that was the only time he beat me. The rest of the time it was verbal. “You are no good,” “You’ll never amount to anything.” That sort of crap. It continued until I was seventeen and finally fought back, refusing to speak to him until he apologized. Goddamit, it makes me physically sick to think of his tormenting teasing. Or the little cruelties- the admission that he burned my security blanket when I was three, the times he let my blind cat outside knowing that she would eventually get run over by a car or tractor. The attempts to get me to force me to drop out of college because he hated education so much. The time I called to tell them I had passed my MA exam and he said, ‘Well now you can come home and work at the pie factory.”
My father was not self-aware. In his mind he was perfect and unfailing. It was a flaw that had cursed his half-brother, their mother, and her mother also, but has luckily been broken. My brother and sisters have escaped, and I think my cousins as well. We all know very well that the nuclear family of our father, his sister, and his half-brother was no tv sitcom family. Instead it was fatally flawed, warped by a grandmother who viewed herself as perfect in every way. Nobody is perfect.
And I sometimes wonder about my father. Today would have been his 51st wedding anniversary- not that he ever remembered that day or was any nicer to my mother when reminded. I wonder if he ever regretted the things he did or wished he had made better choices in his life. After his stroke I suspect there was some dwelling on the past, but by then it was too late.
And so I’m glad he is gone. It makes my life easier. My siblings feel the same. It is very sad. I wish I had had a nicer father, someone I could have respected. But wishes are usually pretty pieces of fluff that just blow away.
